


Mater Sanguine

by Ellepige



Series: Bloodborne Ficlets [2]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Baggage, Evisceration, Feels, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gore, M/M, OC Black Church Hunter Ianus, OC Renegade Hunter Kramer, Other, Pain, Psychological Trauma, Religious Guilt, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Transformation, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 22:17:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13936554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellepige/pseuds/Ellepige
Summary: In the aftermath of the clash, Kramer tries to answer a few pressing questions.





	Mater Sanguine

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware of the warnings before you continue, this isn't going to be pretty.  
> As for the first part of this series, the characters belong to me and a close friend, if you have any questions about them, feel free to ask.

It's over.

My vision is blurred around the edges, every breath is a fight for another minute of conscience, for another moment of overwhelming clarity. Will I wake up in the dream again? I'm tired of it, I'm tired of going through the whole circle over and over again.  
It has to be the end of it.

You're broken, and so am I. I hope this shatters the circle, I need it to be so. The handle of my cleaver slips from my hand, it's teeth, once sharp, now blunted by relentless use, battered by biting and ripping through your skin and flesh repeatedly, clatter onto the stone floor. Even attempting to reclaim my weapon seems pointless. I don't want to. I've done it too many times and never had it made a difference, so now, I refuse. Instead, I maneuver my numb body forward, step by step, even though the mumbling of the echoes gets louder as I proceed. They spill from your body, in a thick, lazy stream that seems to be bent on drowning what little sanity I've managed to retain. 

You reek. Of blood, of piss, of burnt hair where I managed to get a hit in with my weapon, prepared with fire paper. I'm not much better off, I know and so I don't bother to approach carefully, even as the fact that you're still breathing catches me by surprise. More spectator than executor, I watch my bloodsoaked gloves dig into the ragged white fur that has sprouted from your skin. I pull at it. I hear you growl, breathe, I can't tell. Is it a sigh? Or does it sound like one because I am desperate for closure? Because even after all these nights, after refusing the teachings of the Church countless times, I secretly hope for absolution? My legs, marred with deep slashes your claws left, give out and I fall the last few inches, manage to keep myself half upright against your malformed shoulder. You snap, halfheartedly. What's left of your maw isn't able to penetrate the stiff leather of my cloak, but it offers me a moment to look at you. To see what you've become. I offer you the same chance, I know that. There is recognition in your eyes, a spark of human intelligence. Your lips open slightly, in surprise or in an attempt to regain some strenght. 

"Can you die?" It's the question that has been haunting me ever since I've decided that you would be my mark. It's also a question I ask myself night after night. I've seen hunters, driven mad by bloodlust, fighting the same pointless fight again and again. I've encountered beasts that had been burnt alive, staked, cut open, but were still somehow moving. Can you die? Can I? My hands are sure and steady as I unsheathe my knife. It's a simple tool, the kind of blade that is used to gut game.  
"We'll see," I promise. 

Dilligently, I run my hand over the curved line of your torso, until my palm rests against the yielding skin of your stomach. The touch seems innocent as my fingers lie there, half hidden in coarse hair and bits of skin you've shed earlier. I notice that your claws twitch, I even watch you raising your left and moving it closer, but your resources are as limited as mine. And I doubt that you feel the same mixture of disgust and flippancy that keeps me going right now. You surround me, your echoes, your laboured breathing, the smell that makes me retch and also causes me to salivate heavily.  
Is that the the martyrdom you wished for?  
Or am I tainting this sacrosanct moment for you?

I don't want to torture any of us, don't want to draw this out more than I have to, but my endurance is limited. The blade digs deeply into your skin, almost effortlessly parts fur and tissue to reveal colorful entrails. The stench emanating from the cut is nauseating, but part of me wants to bury its face into the dark, slimy cavity. You howl, claw at the soiled ground beneath us as your eyes roll inside their sockets and it's enough to make me jump and drop the tool. I search for it, almost frantically as your meager, but long body spasms, fighting the pain of a new wound. Your beastly nature can't accept its death. The cut is already closing again as I find the knife once more and begin to slice through muscles and membranes. My hands shake, I wrap my left around the right holding the handle to stabilize, but with little to no effect. It's tough to keep up, despite your rapidly deteriorating condition. I'm falling apart just as quickly, occasionally dripping blood and drool into the cut that I manage to carve into the resilient hide. Your insides are fascinating, they look bright in the pale moonlight, fleshy nodes that remind me of mushrooms, the velvety smooth tissue of your liver. It's littered with darker spots and I drop the knife once more to touch it, it can't hurt that much, right? It's easier to continue with my hands, I'm strong, the Blood has made me so. I get a hold on one frayed, hard little kidney and press until it breaks with a strained pop. The remains with their bright color and spongy texture remind me of the fleshy pistil of a tropical plant. I think I once saw one in the conservatory at Byrgenwerth, but maybe it was just another dream. 

You hear your guts breaking, I'm sure. So I need to work harder. I dig deeper, caress your ribcage and rip out the diaphragm, which causes you to huff one last time before your lung collapses. It will be over soon. The fragrant blood drives me mad, but it also keeps me upright and so I feel no shame as I lick the traces off of my gloves. The taste is divine, reminds me why I didn't dare to indulge in it more often.

_Mater sanguine_  
_Redemptio risa se_  
_Exciet exciet. Flebatur a salis._

How long has it been since I said these sacred words? I wish you'd be able to pray with me, but now, I have to pray for both of us as I slowly crawl atop of your stubborn body. Had I still the strenght, I'd reduce you to nothing but scraps, but I lack it and so I have to try my best, see how far I'll manage to come. I claw at the bones protruding from your flesh, I press my thumbs deep into your eyesockes, until my hands are wet and covered in a slick, black substance that doesn't taste as good as your blood or flesh does. At some point, you must have left. I don't remember. It's all vague and blurred, except for the shiver I felt as we partook in holy communion one last time.

The faithful did not change. 

The seam of my glove is ripped. My hands are too large for it now, long, hard nails protrude from the tips of my fingers. My head hurts, my bones ache, more prominently the more the numbing, pleasant buzz of the kill fades. I should kill again. Find another one to prey on.  
I'm not a brave man. Neither honorable nor pious.  
Never as perfect or determined as you were. I wish you'd prayed for me more often, back when we were still brothers. It might have helped, don't you think?  
My gun feels heavy, although it's too small for my new, clumsy hands to grab it properly. I fumble with it, almost drop it as I try to fit my fingertip against the trigger. My gloves are still slick with your blood. I'm tired. Hungry. Restless. No. 

None of that. Not really. I feel empty.  
I envy those I meet, those who I hear laugh, in self-contempt, in pain, in fear. I believed that earning forgiveness would somehow ease this hollowing feeling, if I only try hard enough, but it doesn't. Till the end, I used to be a man of faith. Now, it slowly crumbles.

I hope this nightmare finally ends. Pulling the trigger is easier than I expected.


End file.
